


The Cut of a Blade

by Mishka10



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Being a Feral Bastard, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:49:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25462738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10
Summary: "He grins at the sight, the smell, the splatter, flecks of red, spotted across his knuckles. "Sometimes Jaskier finds himself drawn into a fight, it's almost unavoidable, given his lifestyle. If pressed he would have to admit he enjoys it at times, the thrill of it, the buzz flowing through his veins.But he isn't always careful, and sometimes fighting can be... messy.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 3
Kudos: 139





	1. Chapter 1

Jaskier knows his fighting style can be… messy, on occasion. Chaotic.

Aggressive and ruthless determination tending to override the regular finesse maintained throughout his other talents.

Light and delicate hands focused on causing harm. The need for careful crafting giving way to the urge to bludgeon and bloody an opponent. Pushed on by the single driving focus to fight, to survive.

It serves him well, most of the time. Keeps him alive at the worst of times, brought him out on top of more than one messy scrap. Let him walk away triumphant from the odd bar fight.

Not that it doesn’t have its draw backs at times, of course it does.

Diving into combat as chaotic messy storm tends to result in some degree of… destruction. The cost of smashed tables to be reimbursed to angry inn owners, his own property, broken and discarded in the name of victory, a cracked lute, wood shattered and split.

These are admittedly at times unnecessary costs, avoidable if he had more skill, more patience, more care, but nothing he couldn’t fix with a little coin.

A week sleeping rough to pay back an inn, tightening his belt for a month to afford a new instrument, and everything is fine, everything is back to normal.

They were costs he could handle. Usually.

Some things were admittedly harder to brush off, the odd scratch and scar that could have been avoided, the click of his wrist, bones slipping together, a constant reminder of a rough punch, poorly planned and a touch too aggressive…

But they were still things he could handle, things he could afford. Costs to himself and no one else.

He was used to it, used to stumbling out of a fight, triumphant but ready to count the losses gained through his careless mayhem.

The fight was a mess from the start, a minor disagreement, a squabble in the local tavern with a group of off duty guards leading to needless violence. He found himself facing skilled and experienced fighters, alcohol free flowing through everyone’s veins, his own included. 

Oh yes, It was set to be a mess from the very beginning, too many players in too small a space, general customers caught up in the chaos, most throwing themselves along into the fight, tossing the entire building into a messy state of madness.

He sees no way out, so he does what he does best, dives in, blade swinging, ready to fight. Booze and unreasonable anger spurring him on, calling for blood.

He ignores Geralt’s angry grumbling, the Witcher slowly pushing through the crowd, attention split between saving the odd innocent patron and trying to reach Jaskier.

Likely planning to grab him, yank him out before too much damage is done. Not that Geralt seemed likely to reach him any time soon, enough angry soldiers between them to hold him back for a fair minute or two.

Geralt will reach him in his own time, until then he can focus on the fight.

So he does. He dives in, blood buzzing, already seeing red. He tugs free the dagger strapped to his belt, takes a swing at the nearest man, ducking around the wide swung punch.

He throws himself to the side to avoid a flying ale bottle, and takes a hit back, smashes the hilt of the blade into the man’s face. Watches the man’s nose crumble under the weight of it, bright red blood flowing freely down the soldier’s face.

He grins at the sight, the smell, the splatter, flecks of red, spotted across his knuckles.

He ducks around the swing of a makeshift bat, a wooden chair leg welded with malicious, aimed for his head. Thrusts the blade forward, sinking into a shoulder, drawing more blood. He yanks it back out, lets the blood flow free.

A shove, someone hits him, a cuff across the back of the head, sends him tipping forward. He sucks in a breath, gasping, a familiar ache building in his mind.

An arm wraps around his chest, lifts his feet from the floor. He throws himself back in response, back of his head smashing into the man’s face, the arm releases him, his freedom earned once again.

He twirls round with a slashing swing, knife nicking unprotected skin, drawing another’s blood once more. 

A joyous laugh breaks free of his chest, a wondrous light feeling within him, revelling in the bloodshed, gods could chaos be fun at times.

He draws back an arm, strong and sharp, ready to strike, watch it sink into the body of the man before him. He swings it round, fast and wide and _messy._

He feels the blade connect with something, burry in deep, long before reaching its target.

The blade is tugged free from his grip, slick flingers slipping off, still carrying on forward, not yet caught up with the interruption.

He turns, feels the blood freeze in his veins when he finds the Witcher on the other end of his blade.

The Witcher in turn looks more surprised than horrified, staring at the knife with a sense of uncomprehending confusion, unable to truly accept its existence. Its presence, half buried in his chest. 

Geralt frowns at it, face scrunching in thought, mind working through the puzzle pieces, trying to understand the presence of the blade within his chest.

Not that he has long to mull it over, the madness continuing on around them, a man taking a swing at Geralt’s head.

The Witcher parries the blow, sinks his sword into the poor man’s head. Pulls back with a pained grunt, fingers curing around the hilt of the dagger, pulling it free with ease.

Jaskier sucks in a shocked breath at the sight, eyes focused on the blood, trickling out, a thin stream trailing down from the wound.

He feels cold. Chilled, hands shaking, breath half knocked from his veins. Gods he feels cold, struggling to process what happened, what he had done.

This isn’t the time for such thoughts, the fact punctuated by a bottle thrown from across the room. It catches him on the side of the face, cheek stinging from the impact.

He reaches a hand to brush against the stinging skin, hand coming away wet, skin broken by a harsh edge, a minor cut, nothing to truly worry about, despite the pain.

Still, he stares at it, the red blood on his fingertips, mind replaying the image of his blade in the Witcher’s chest.

Geralt’s hand wraps around his arm, pulling him from his thoughts tugging him forward, tugging him out.

He lets Geralt pull him out the door, both stumbling out into the cool night air. He steps out, away, sucks in a breath, feeling the crisp sting of evening in his lungs. He sighs, tries to shake off the numbing weight of fear and dread still coating his body.

He turns, catching sight once more of the Witcher. Geralt offers a half grunt at his gaze, hand pressed against his wound, blood slowly oozing free from it, sluggishly coating his fingers, skin stained red.

He gulps at the sight. Fighting to keep his head above the tide of terror and guilt overwhelming him.

His chaos has delivered a shockingly cruel cost this time, but he will not crumble, not yet.


	2. Chapter 2

Jaskier stares at the sight before him, Geralt’s face painted in a grimace, hand pressed hard against his chest wound.  
He stares at the blood, slowly dripping out between the Witcher’s fingers, soaking through the man’s shirt, almost black in the fading evening light. Black and bright and burning in his mind.

He had done this.  
He had fucked up.

Fuck.

He pulls in a cold and tired breath, shakes himself from his frozen fear, stumbles forward to loop an arm around Geralt, coax the Witcher into letting him hold at least a little of his weight as he guides them onward.  
Geralt grumbles but does not push away, he lets Jaskier help, lets Jaskier guide them away from the continued mayhem behind them.

Jaskier offers a silent prayer to any listening ears that the tavern they had visited was separate from the inn, the evenings unnecessary squabble had not cost them their bed for the night if nothing else.  
He guides them there, along uneven winding streets, into a miss-match building, ignoring the watching eyes as they stumble up the stairs.

Geralt breaks away from him when they step into the room, pushing away to sit, heavy and tired on the bed, eyes dropping shut for a moment, breath released as a heavy sigh.  
He busies himself, darting around the room, gathering up the necessary supplies to tend to Geralt’s wound, returning to dump them half-triumphantly on the bed.  
Geralt grunts, tugging off his shirt and making a start on cleaning the wound. The Witcher waves Jaskier away with a dismissive flick of the hand, content to do the work himself.

So, he finds himself hovering at the edge of the bed, a new nervous energy buzzing within him. He shifts, jittery, unsure-  
“It’s fine, Jaskier.”  
“I didn’t mean to-”  
“I know.” Geralt grunts, “I said it’s fine.”  
“I stabbed you.”

Geralt levels a stare at him for statement, eyebrow raised in almost… amused question, “I know, Jaskier.”  
He gulps, feels as though he wants to laugh, as though he wants to cry. He huffs out a heavy breath, uncomfortable and unsure, wishing he knew what to do now, “I’m sorry.”

Geralt grunts again, offering a half shrug in answer, another unimpressed, “it’s fine.”  
“I really- I really didn’t intend to, I- fuck I’m so sorry.”  
“It was an accident.” A pause, Geralt’s eyes flicking up to meet his before looking away once more, returning to his focus on his stab wound “It’s not just your fault, I should have seen it coming.”

That thought throws him for a second, brain turning over the reality of what had really happened. He had stabbed Geralt, he had been able to stab Geralt… “How-” he pauses, wondering if he should ask, “how did- why didn’t you see it… coming?”

Geralt pauses, shifts, nose crinkling in discomfort, “I was distracted.”  
He laughs at that, the thought of Geralt, distracted during a fight, “by what?”  
“You.”  
“Me? But- if you where paying attention to me- I’m the one who stabbed you!”  
“I was distracted with keeping you safe. I wasn’t expecting…” Geralt trails off, words lost to the air.

He nods at that, suddenly tired he sits on the edge of the bed with a weak sigh, “you weren’t expecting me to… to… be the one to stab you.”  
“…no.”  
“I didn’t- I really didn’t mean to.”  
Geralt drags a tired hand over his face and offers a muffled groan, “I know, Jaskier.”

“Right.” he nods, “good.” nervous eyes glancing over to the now clean wound, blood still slowly oozing free, “will it… be okay?”  
Geralt grunts again, tugging at the wound, examining it with a critical eye, “mmm… needs stitches but it will heal.”  
He nods at that as well, it shouldn’t be surprising, he had gathered up the supplies for it already. Yet still, it chills him, the fact Geralt will need stitches, because of him, because of his actions.  
Delicate and nimble fingers reach out towards the needle, hesitant and worried, “can I- let me do it?”

Geralt grunts, eyes flicking away in a way he almost wants to call… nervous. The Witcher nods, brief and quick and sharp, but accepting.

He takes up the needle and thread, settles in closer, careful fingers brushing against Geralt’s chest, mapping the tear of the flesh. It was a neat wound, if nothing else, contained and manageable.  
He takes his time with the stitches, trying to be precise, careful. Not allowing for any further mistakes. The thread is dark, standing out in clear contrast against Geralt’s pale skin.  
A clear, visible mark, standing out even on a body scattered with marks.

He looks at those as well, the raised lines and angry marks, reminders and remnants of Geralt’s past battles. He wonders if his mark will join them, if it too will remain, “will it scar?”  
The question earns him a snort, “you stabbed me Jaskier, yes, it will likely leave a scar.”  
He shutters at that, the thought his mark will remain, a constant reminder of his mistake, the pain he had caused, runs a thumb down the mark, considering. Sitting in his regret.

Geralt must read the worry on his face, hand coming to cover his own, still resting on Geralt’s chest. “It’s fine. Really, I have enough I’ll barely notice it.”  
“…I will notice it.”  
Geralt winces, face soured, “I know and I… I wish that you will not. It is- it will be fine.”  
He flitches, wants to protest, to pull away, what right does he have, accepting comfort from Geralt in this moment, when he was the one who caused pain.

Geralt does not seem to notice his inner conflict, or does not mind it if he does, offering Jaskier’s hand a light squeeze, “it does not sound like the worst of things, having a… persistent reminder of you, to carry with me wherever I go.”  
He freezes at that, horror splashed across his face, the thought of Geralt taking this as… as a positive, this violent reminder-  
He wants to throw up. To sink into the floor and cease to exist, what had happened was nothing positive, it was destructive and carless and nothing else. “Maybe under better circumstances… but this- Geralt- I marked you, I hurt-” a choked off sob cuts off his words, sticking in his throat.

Geralt shrugs, rolls his shoulders, the movement tugging on fresh stitches, skin shifting but holding tight. “It happened, we can’t change that, but it will heal, Jask, it will be fine.”  
“I- fuck.” He finds himself stuttering, words failing him, “I- I don’t-” he sniffs, blinks fresh wetness from his eyes, “I – what do we do now?”  
Geralt frowns slightly, “now? Well…” a pause, “you could do with having a bit more care with a weapon next time.”  
He laughs, a choking, wet sound. Nods in agreement, yes, he could do with learning to take a bit more care.

“Fair, yea, fair.”  
Geralt hums, giving his hand another soft squeeze, “I’m glad you’re alright. Other than…” Geralt lifts a hand, thumbing over the minor cut on his cheek.  
He snorts, “Me? I’m not the one who was stabbed.”  
“No, but you are the one who decided to start a fight with a number of… less than pleasant individuals.” Geralt watches him carefully, considering, “maybe next time you avoid that instead?” it’s asked with a smile, the futility of the question already known.  
He offers a smile in return, a neutral, “I can try, but I make no promises.”  
Geralt tilts his head in a shrug, “deal.”

“Now,” Geralt releases his hand, settling back on the bed, shifting to get comfortable, “make yourself useful and leave me be.”  
“Geralt-”  
“Jaskier.” Geralt waves his hand, dismissive and done, eyes already slipping shut, “enough.”

So he goes, busies himself, tidying away their supplies, the rest of the mess. All too soon he finds himself done, finds himself once again hovering on the edges of Geralt’s space, wanting… wanting something. To do something more, to help.  
Drags a half-worn blanket over Geralt, offer him some of the comfort he so often goes without.  
He slips, stumbles, hand landing heavy on Geralt’s shoulder, hears the man grunt at the impact.

The Witcher peers at him under still mostly shut lids, waving him away “enough, Jaskier, haven’t you done enough damage for tonight, let me rest.”  
He feels the fear sink back in, grasp his heart tight- “I didn’t mean t-”  
Geralt cuts him off with a tired groan, “I know, Jaskier. I know.”

He nods, tries to gulp down the remaining whispers of fear, thin threads still trailing around his heart. Takes a step back, body uncomfortably heavy but struck by the sudden need to run.  
Geralt opens his eyes again with an annoyed huff, “I didn’t- stay if you want.”  
“What?”  
“Stay.” Geralt shifts, pats the bed beside him.  
He stares for a moment, frozen. He doesn’t deserve this, he had hurt the man, he should just go, leave not only Geralt’s side but the room entirely, find something to distract himself-  
Geralt huffs, “Stop thinking and lie down.”

He does. Slides in beside the Witcher, settles carefully, curled on his side, unable to keep his eyes from trailing across Geralt’s chest, mapping each scar and scrape, eyes carefully avoiding the most recent of the wounds.  
Geralt huffs again, settling, and he assumes that will be the last of it. they will – well Geralt will, sleep, and he will lie there, sitting in his guilt, trying not to feel it, to accept the offering that everything will be fine.

They lie there for a moment, still, before to his surprise… Geralt is the one to break the silence.

“If it helps… I have… hurt you before.”  
It takes him a moment to respond, to register the words and form an answer, “I- what?”  
“I know, on occasion I can be… rough. I’ve hurt you, more… purposefully then this.”  
His mind whirs, presenting a slideshow of memories, rough shoves, yanks, the odd punch to the gut… it wasn’t a lie, Geralt had hurt him before, but… “I- fuck.”  
Geralt hums, “I’m sorry, Jaskier.”

He blinks, trying to twist his mind around it, the apology settling into his bones, soft and warm.  
He doesn’t expect Geralt to continue, the words soft yet gruff, warming his heart. “I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry, I… will… take more care, moving forward.”

He swallows, sighs, tilts his head towards Geralt, resting his head against the man, “I… forgive you.”  
Geralt grunts, “good. I forgive you.”  
He laughs at that, “did- did you just… manipulate my guilt away?”

Geralt grunts again, rolling over, offering a final, “go to sleep Jaskier.”

He sighs, settles back with a smile on his face. Feeling good, feeling warm and comfortable. He knocks his head against Geralt’s back, enjoying the soft warmth radiating off the man. He offers a soft, “thank you,”

“Go. To. Sleep, Jaskier.”

Sleep, yes, that sounds nice.  
To sleep, to let rest and time heal all wounds.  
That, he can do.

**Author's Note:**

> -thanks for reading-


End file.
